Sunset Valley
by qichi
Summary: Alfred Jones gets a summer job at a retirement community. And Arthur Kirkland, well, Arthur Kirkland lives there.


It's a summer job.

Alfred doesn't really expect anything when he applies, anyway — he's sending in applications all over town. Both bookstores, all three pizza places, the thrift shop, a video rental place, and… here. Sunset Valley Retirement Community. It's a week and a half later he gets a call back. He goes in for an interview, and so it's decided: he's to spend his summer here, an afternoon shift every weekday until high school starts back up again.

He discovers that it's a lot more fun than he expected. Sure, mostly he just helps folks get where they need to be, cleans the card room after they shuffle out, things like that. It's a help job, maintenance and a smiling face.

But a lot of these people are lonely, Alfred discovers. Some of them live thousands of miles from their children, their grandchildren. Some get frequent mail from relatives. Most don't. More than once he ends up shirking some small cleaning duty to sit next to someone and listen — just listen.

They're left here, a lot of them; it's not a nursing home but it's strictly lived in by people over 60, a rule in the community charter. It's easy for that to weigh on them. Alfred is the first fresh face many of them have seen since last summer, last kid with a swimming pool tan who couldn't score a job at the movie theater. His friends act like he should mind. He doesn't.

The first time Alfred meets Mr. Kirkland it's a routine call — well, no. He hates to think of _this _as routine. It shouldn't be. Mr. Kirkland's fallen; Alfred's the closest by, uses a community skeleton key to get into his house and hurries to the kitchen. It's spilled cooking oil, that's all it is, enough to make this necessary.

"You really need to be more careful," Alfred says, concerned. He hates going on calls like this. Hates it. But Mr. Kirkland just scoffs; Alfred's soon back outside, pocketing the key, walking away from that house without hearing thanks. He reminds himself, though, that Mr. Kirkland would still be lying there if he hadn't come by. He doesn't need to hear it, he guesses.

Mr. Kirkland turns out to be the stubborn, angry sort. He refuses to get a walker or cane or anything, just walks all over the place, damned be the consequences. Alfred can't help but worry for him. The others, especially Mr. Bonnefoy, tells him not to bother with someone that angry and hateful, but… Alfred doesn't think so.

He thinks he's lonely.

xxx

Weeks pass at that job, and it comes to a point where Alfred not only asks for more shifts whenever possible, taking up the slack for anyone who calls in sick, he feels like there's nothing to do on the weekends. Sometimes he just comes by anyway, hangs out with everyone.

He learns how to play bridge. He watches old-timey movies that were filmed before his parents were even born. He's not great at it, but he starts trying to pick up knitting.

He knocks on Mr. Kirkland's door, once.

It practically slams open; Alfred's eyes go wide to see Mr. Kirkland there, glaring. "What is it, lad? I was about to run the bathwater—"

Oh. Alfred deflates. He hasn't seen him in the community buildings lately. He never played card games, or watched films, or… well, he couldn't see Mr. Kirkland knitting, actually. But still: he'd been hoping, hoping he would be able to spend time with him before September. Make sure he was doing alright, keeping safe. Make sure he wasn't lonely…

The idea comes to his head and his mouth opens almost exactly at the same moment. Maybe that's why he even says it. Because he doesn't give himself the time to process it as the most ridiculous thing he's ever asked.

"Let me help!"

Mr. Kirkland is visibly lost for a response. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again only to mutter "no," but Alfred sticks his sneaker in the doorway as it starts swinging closed again. "Look, please? I just, I want to get to know you! Everyone always says you're so disagreeable and you never get along with anyone, but you called me that day for a reason, right? You didn't want to just… Lay there and die, right? You like being alive, Mr. Kirkland! You like being in this community!"

Alfred stands there, desperate. After a moment of protracted, awkward silence, Mr. Kirkland's door creaks open again. "And, if I have this straight, that's why I'm to… let you bathe me?"

Oh, he… he does have a point. Alfred's not sure what's going on in his head, not sure what he wants, or why he said that. He can't put his finger on why Mr. Kirkland has him so much more interested than the other folks here, or why he so strongly wants to be let inside. He just… does.

Mr. Kirkland turns around and walks away.

Alfred's disappointed until he realizes the front door is still wide open.

xxx

The tub is specially-built for members of the community; the bottom is ridged and bumped, so it's pretty impossible to slip and fall if you want a shower. But Mr. Kirkland's sitting in inches of water, though, only just above lukewarm. He seems completely unembarrassed about his state of undress, which makes him the dead opposite of Alfred about that. Alfred ends up being embarrassed that he's embarrassed — Mr. Kirkland just barks laughter and mutters something about the old days, when he was Alfred's age. Alfred's not sure he gets it, and equally not sure he entirely wants to.

Up close, there's no denying the age in Mr. Kirkland's face. It's hard to imagine him laughing but laugh lines mark the outer edges of his eyes like creases in butter. Alfred stares a little too much, and Mr. Kirkland turns to look at him.

The first thought Alfred has when Mr. Kirkland's eyes catch his one is that they've seen so _much_.

The second is that they're greener than anything.

The third is that kissing him was probably a bad idea.

But then, he doesn't seem to mind. At least, he's not pushing him away. At all. In fact, Mr. Kirkland suddenly has a wet hand on Alfred's shoulder. It'll soak through his shirt, but he kind of really doesn't care. He forces himself to pull away, though, because — "Sorry, I'm so sorry, um- fuck."

Mr. Kirkland has a way of laughing that's insulting and comforting at the same time. "I can't very well do that anymore, lad," oh god is he going along with this, he's really going along with this. _Alfred _doesn't even know if he wants to go along with this!

If… If Mr. Kirkland wants it, though. If this is what he wants to not be lonely, if this is how he seeks out companionship when no one writes him letters or plays games or watches movies or makes sweaters with him… well, Alfred — Alfred is okay with that, he decides.

It definitely wasn't in his job description. But he'd taken on extra hours. And come in on the weekends. And learned bridge.

He could do this.

The sponge falls uselessly into the pooling water; it follows a small wave and bobs against Mr. Kirkland's side. Alfred licks his lips, a nervous tic, and dips his hand in the water before sliding it down Mr. Kirkland's torso, through that patch of hair, lower. He's watching those green eyes, and sees the edges of them curl up.

xxx

Even the relatives of the folks at Sunset Valley don't tend to come by much. They're used to being sequestered away, forgotten. It's not usual for teenagers to just drop by and say hello to the residents.

Alfred does it anyway.


End file.
